


you look bloody fantastic

by abyssith



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Goodbyes and Hellos, I Blame Tumblr, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kissing, M/M, No Angst, Post-Canon, for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:18:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abyssith/pseuds/abyssith
Summary: “Where is he?” Thomas asks again, distracted by Newt’s name. He needs to find him, and now–he has never felt an urge this strong to get to someone before.





	you look bloody fantastic

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't even bother editing

Thomas had always imagined death would be cold. Dark, too.

So he is quite surprised when he opens his eyes and, rather than a murky blackness, his vision is flooded with a bright white glare.

He is blinded for a long moment and he closes his eyes on instinct, groaning as he rolls onto his side. Something long enough to be grass but too soft for the name tickles his cheek and incites a squeaky sneeze.

He lies there, still and silent, until he decides to risk another peek. This time, his eyes adjust. Thomas slowly lifts his upper body from the ground with his arms. He shields his eyes with a hand as he squints forward; what he sees shocks him.

It is the Glade. But…not the Glade he knows.

It’s been years since Thomas had seen the fields he once called home. But he’s certain he’s never seen it so open, so wide and so free before. Then he finds that there are no walls. No giant, menacing stone slabs that shrink the Glade down into a frightened little square. Now it is just steady rolls of lush grass and dandelions and marigolds, lined with weeping willows near the water and rich brown oaks to his back.

Thomas stares in awe. The air smells like summer and freedom and life and he can’t get enough of it. The adrenaline it provides him with pulls him to his feet with a newfound energy. He laughs as he jogs forward a few feet before breaking into a full-out sprint. It’s easy, so easy to run–his breaths stay in rhythm and his muscles never ache. It isn’t like he expected them to, being dead and all, but it is still a pleasant treat.

The distant sound of crashing waves drifts into his ears as Thomas crests a hill. And then there it is: shining and proud and blue, glittering under the sun like a sky full of stars. Sand the color of pearls and cream trace the flawless coastline. Fuzzy cattails and sparse bushes with smooth, glossy leaves lead a path towards the beach. It is the landscape of heaven, complete with clean horizon dotted with puffy cottonball clouds.

Oh, but that isn’t the best part. In fact Thomas almost doesn’t see the beauty in the place he has found himself in because he’s too busy watching the people. The people, who are playing outside of a collection of hammocks and huts clustered near an outcrop of jagged rocks. The children, who are shrieking with delight as they play tag near the palm trees by the sea. The adults, who talk and laugh as they recline in wooden chairs by the empty firepits. 

It looks so much like Safe Haven, where Thomas has lived until…well, yesterday, he supposes. He misses it dearly, but he doesn’t mind dying for the girl he saved in the storm. He was never exactly the same after losing–

A sudden hope swells in Thomas’s heart. He’s off and running again, waving wildly and shouting at the top of his lungs. He can’t recall the last time he has felt so excited. His feet take him down to the beach so fast that he tumbles forward when he trips over a bump in the ground. He rolls to the sand clumsily but springs right back up, completely unfazed and unhurt. 

“Hey!” he calls, both arms waving above his head to draw the people’s attention. “Hey, it’s me! It’s Thomas!”

It briefly occurs to him that they may not even know who he is. But it could not possibly be a mistake that this place resembles the Glade so greatly in not only appearance but atmosphere, too. He is where he belongs, and Thomas fiercely believes this with all his heart.

Some of the children stop their game to gape at him as he gets closer to the campsite. Almost instantly one of them points at him and yells, “I know you!”

This brings Thomas skidding to a stop. Sand flies everywhere as he plants his feet and staggers over, interested all at once. “You do?” he asks, looking down at the kid. “How? Does–does anyone else know me?”

Several other kids have run over to join the first, and out of the corner of his eye Thomas can see a few of the older inhabitants coming to investigate. But all of his attention is on the boy with huge green eyes saying, “Well, everyone! In facts, they was just talkin'  ‘bout you earlier. Sayin’ how much they miss you and all.”

Thomas’s breath hitches. Blood pounds in his ear. “Who are you talking about?” he whispers.

The kid is just about to answer when a different boy’s voice, just slightly deeper in pitch than the child’s, interrupts with an incredulous gasp. “Thomas?”

Thomas turns around sharply. Tears spring to his eyes as he sees him, running ahead of everyone else, as chubby and red-faced as ever. He stares at Thomas with a smile beginning to pull at his open mouth.

A sob escapes Thomas as he cries, “Oh my God, Chuck,” and rushes forward. The younger boy gives a startled yelp as Thomas scoops him up in his arms and twirls him around. His heart soars with a deep affection and he doesn’t put Chuck down until he complains, “Your pits stink, you shank!”

Thomas laughs but allows Chuck to stand on his own. He is too overjoyed to mind the comment on his odor. Anyway, it didn’t seem like Chuck cared all that much because his eyes are sparkling and he’s grinning wider than Thomas has ever seen him.

“I missed you so much,” Thomas whispers, kneeling in front of him and pulling him into another fierce hug. “You have no idea. I thought about you everyday and–shit, Chuck, I just–”

“There are CHILDREN present,” Chuck protests loudly.

Thomas snorts and finally leans away. He ruffles Chuck’s hair as he turns and gestures around him. “Nah, they like their game too much. And you’re one to talk, Mr. I-Klunked-My-Pants-Three-Times.”

Chuck bursts into laughter that folds him in half until he’s on the sand, clutching his stomach. To know that he still finds Glader slang hilarious even after being here three-fourths of a decade makes Thomas feel as though he is walking on sunshine. He forgets what sadness is; it does not exist here. Not while Chuck is alive and delighted and immortalized by the absence of time.

“You haven’t changed at all,” Thomas chuckles. Privately, he is glad for it.

“Nope!” Chuck agrees, sighing as he dusts himself off. “And neither have you. Still as ugly as ever.”

“Ah, you don’t mean it.” Why can’t Thomas stop smiling?

“Alright, alright. You look good. It’s been…” Chuck’s face tightens up as he tries to calculate time in his head. He gives up quickly. “A really long time.”

Thomas squeezes Chuck’s shoulders and answers warmly, “You bet it has. God, I really did miss you, Chuck.”

Chuck blushes and hides his face by looking down. “The others are here, by the way.”

Static thunders in Thomas’s ears. He sobers right up. “The others…Alby, Fry–”

“And Winston and Gally and Sonya–wait, no, she goes by Lizzy now. Teresa,” Chuck answers, counting on his fingers as he lists their names. Then he pauses and looks up at Thomas with a tenderness that ages him ten years. “And Newt.”

Thomas’s knees become weak without warning and he has to hug himself to stay steady. It takes him a moment to regain composure, but Chuck is patient. “Where.” He swallows hard. “Where are they?”

“I think Alby took Gally and Lizzy out to go fishing. It’s about time,” Chuck adds with a knowing nod to himself. “Lizzy’s been hanging out with her brother too much. She’s not as…fiesty, anymore.” He almost looks disappointed upon saying this.

Thomas is too caught up in one detail. “Wait–brother? Who…” Even as he says it, he discovers that somehow, he already knows the answer. Some faded memory of being fed this information by a young voice in a dark room next to a window flashes through his mind.

“Yeah, Newt,” Chuck responds, not noticing the familiarity cross Thomas’s face. “I mean, I see it. They’re super alike. You should’ve seen their faces when they saw each other here and remembered at the same time. It was magical.”

“Where is he?” Thomas asks again, distracted by Newt’s name. He needs to find him, and  _now_ –he has never felt an urge this strong to get to someone before.

Chuck looks over his shoulder and motions to the campsite. “Dunno, but my best guess is somewhere in there. Probably in his hut. It’s still early, so he might still be sleeping. You want me to find Teresa? I can get her instead–”

“No,” Thomas answers firmly. He’s startled by the finality in his voice, by the passion he feels in his chest. He wants to see Teresa, yes, of course–but Newt comes first. “No, just–go tell her I’m here. I…I gotta find Newt.”

Just like old times, Chuck looks thrilled to have been given a job. “Sure!” he chirps. He is about to leave when he hesitates and hugs Thomas one more time. “I missed you too,” he mumbles before turning on his heel and scampering off.

Thomas fondly watches the boy’s retreating figure for a few seconds. He knows he’ll be talking to Chuck for hours when he settles in. But he has other priorities right now.

He sets off at a brisk pace across the beach. His hand moves to the middle of his chest to absentmindedy fiddle with the stringed capsule hanging from his neck. It’s a habit that has cemented over the years, so he rarely notices when he does it. But Thomas catches himself this time, and with a jolt he realizes this will be the first time he will see Newt after reading the letter.

He had memorized every word of that note. He can quote it in his sleep, can see each sentence with his eyes closed. It was like a bedtime story that he read when nights got particularly bad. Some nights it only worsened the pain, but other times he would smile as he cried. The words of love and concern and assurance the paper spoke made Thomas more desperate to see Newt with each passing day. Now that he finally can, he has no idea what he will do. 

 _Tell him how you feel. It’s about time._  However Thomas pushes the thought away, too sheepish to address it.

His fingers curl around the necklace protectively as the first of the huts pass him by. People look up at Thomas from where they sit or stand, but their gazes do not linger. He relaxes when he notices that they don’t find him strange. Perhaps they are used to newcomers arriving out of the blue.

“Excuse me,” he says to a middle-aged woman toting a basket of coconuts who is passing by a well. “Do you know Newt?”

Her expression, which had been widened and guarded with surprise, soften at the boy’s name. She smiles a little and replies, “Why, yes, of course I do. He makes the loveliest woven necklaces.”

Thomas is taken aback by this and only remembers he is supposed to be looking for a location when the woman politely coughs. “Uh, yeah, um–do you know where I can find him?”

The woman balances the basket between her hip and her arm as she points to her left with her free hand. “Right down that way. He’s got a little birdhouse in the front. You’ll know it when you see it.”

Thomas thanks her and follows her directions. Every step he takes increases the speed at which his heart beats and he has to stop to breathe many times. The roads are made of dirt, here, where the huts begin to be built on grass rather than sand. 

A white and yellow parrot swoops down from the roof of the house a couple yards away, grazing his hair with the breeze it carries. With a burning feeling in his face, Thomas knows he has arrived.

He glances at the birdhouse beside the window. This hut is a little bigger than the others, and much more decorated. Lizzy certainly has been paying Newt a multitude of visits.

He steps up to the door and sucks in a deep breath. He lifts his hand to knock but pauses, overcome by a wave of vertigo.  _Just knock, Thomas,_  he tells himself. _You wanted to see him, didn’t you?_

He squeezes his eyes shut and raps the door four times with his fist.

He holds his breath as he hears stirring inside the small house. All of the blood in his body shoots straight to his face and his heart vaults into his throat when he hears a voice he could only find in his dreams for seven years yell, “Hold on!”

There’s a bit of metallic clanking and grunting as if the boy is stumbling over things. Then he’s on the other side of the door, unlocking it, and Thomas had barely two seconds to prepare himself before he’s suddenly looking into Newt’s dark brown eyes.

“Can I hel–” Newt’s voice hitches, and then disappears all together.

A silence heavier than a storm cloud stretches out between the boys as they gaze at each other in astonishment. Thomas can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything but stare. His eyes burn with the warning of tears. If he blinks, he will cry.

Something changes in Newt’s face, and all at once his own tears are pouring down his face. That’s all it takes for Thomas to choke out, “Newt,” and lunge towards him.

Newt moves at the same time and they’re hugging, embracing each other with a grip so tight they are in true danger of suffocating each other. But death is not a threat here, and they do not release each other for a long time. Thomas is sobbing into Newt’s shoulder and Newt’s face is pressed against his neck, soaking Thomas’s skin with his tears.

Thomas’s fingers twist into Newt’s shirt and he holds the nape of his neck as if he will never let go again. Newt’s hair is so feathery and light and  _softer_  than he remembers. Thomas strokes it without thinking. Everything is warm and tranquil, and in this minute there is nothing but the other boy.

Newt is trembling so hard. His nails bite into Thomas’s back but Thomas can’t even care.

Finally Thomas leans back just enough to look Newt in the eye. Newt’s face is beet-red from crying and embarrassment, but there is only the purest form of happiness in his gaze. “Tommy,” he hiccups, gently cupping his hands around Thomas’s face. His eyes are glassy with tears of euphoria. “ _Tommy_.”

“I’m here, Newt,” Thomas breathes. He combs some hair back from where it had fallen into Newt’s face. “I’m right here and I swear I’m never gonna leave you again. I’m right here.”

Newt lets out a cry and drags his face in before Thomas could react. Their lips collide and he acts without thinking, closing his eyes as he pulls Newt to his chest. There is hunger where they touch but it is not carnal: it is the thirst for a lover after being separated for years, the desire to explore the impossible, the yearning for the other half of one’s soul. Thomas kisses Newt with a need he never knew he possessed and Newt responds just as powerfully.

When the initial burst of energy fades Thomas focuses on savoring the moment before it ends. He concentrates on the mint he tastes and the smell of salt and firewood clinging to the older boy’s skin. He thinks about how Newt’s long blond eyelashes flutter against his cheek as they try to tug each other deeper, deeper, deeper. He preens in the way Newt’s arms curve around his body, one around his side and one over his shoulders. Everything about this feels so right, so perfect, and he’s bewildered over why it had never happened while they were both alive.

At last Newt breaks the kiss, gasping for breath. Little more than a couple inches holds them apart. Their eyes meet and Thomas is instantly entranced by the way the chocolate swirls in Newt’s irises, heavy and endless and stunning.

“Oh, Tommy,” Newt whispers for the third time, as if he is trying to get accustomed to saying the younger boy’s name. He utters it delicately and reverently, all the ways that melt Thomas’s heart. He touches Thomas’s cheek with the love and caress of an angel. “You look bloody fantastic for somebody who just died.”

Thomas grins. It took him two lifetimes to be standing here, with the one he forgot he loved so much between his arms. But Newt is  _there_ , more handsome and healthy than he has ever looked in life, glowing with an ethereal grace unlike anything Thomas has ever seen. He makes a silent promise to never, ever leave Newt’s side again.

“You don’t look half bad yourself,” Thomas murmurs.

.

.

_END_

**Author's Note:**

> I've done nothing but write angst and this was, again, NOT supposed to get this long which was why there are so many loose ends but you know what I don't even fucking care I'm just broken by that movie


End file.
